


There Is a Fountain

by saltandbyrne



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Gaping, Barebacking, Bathing/Washing, Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Comeplay, Dirty Talk, Extremely Underage, Felching, Feminization, Hole Worship, Little bit of temporary prolapsing, M/M, Masturbation, Obsession, Repent, Rimming, Rough Sex, Self-Fisting, Sibling Incest, Somnophilia, This is made of sin, Underage Sex, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-18
Updated: 2016-01-18
Packaged: 2018-05-14 16:11:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,360
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5749693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/saltandbyrne/pseuds/saltandbyrne
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Worship, that’s really it.  Dean could prostrate himself to this spit-wet circle of holy ground until his knees bleed.</p><p>Title from an old hymn my grandfather loved:<br/><i>There is a fountain filled with blood,</i><br/>Drawn from Immanuel’s veins,<br/>And sinners plunged beneath that flood<br/>Lose all their guilty stains.</p>
            </blockquote>





	There Is a Fountain

**Author's Note:**

  * For [dollylux](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dollylux/gifts).



> A birthday ode to dollylux, who has given so much to this fandom and my heart. This is just a dirty drop in the bucket but I offer it with love.
> 
> Dolly has a tag for "hole worship" on her tumblr that always makes me think of Dean burying his face in Sam's ass like it's heaven. This fic is basically my id trying to scratch at her id, so buckle up your seatbelts because this is so, so, _so_ filthy and wrong and unrepentant about it.
> 
> The sexual experimentation starts when Dean is 10 and Sam is 6, so just know that. Please don't read this if underage isn't your thing. If it is, come sin with me, it's nice and warm in here.

Dean is ten when he’s undone by a washcloth and a whimper.

 

“This one’s gonna be a good place.”

 

Sam nods, ever-sure in that first grade way of his. His legs trail out skinny and wavy under the water. He’s pinked to his ears with warmth and he smiles when Dean scrubs the washcloth over his chest.

 

“The bathroom’s nice.” Dean shrugs.

 

They both fit in the tub easily when Dad’s not home, without even having to tuck their legs up. The last place they’d stayed had only had a shower and bath time had been miserable for Sam.

 

“Hair time.”

 

He hates getting it in his eyes.

 

Sam nods, his curls flopping into his face and his back planing out of the water as he gets on his hands and knees. The easiest way to keep the shampoo out of his eyes is when he looks down, Dean had figured that out years ago.

 

It’s easier when Dean’s in the tub with him and doesn’t have to worry about getting his pajama pants wet. But Dad had been pestering Dean to stop babying Sam, like Sam’s old enough to take a bath by himself. Dad just wants Sam to “be a little man” like his brother. Dean still catches himself telling people that Sam’s his baby.

 

Someone had left a third of a bottle of Johnson’s No-Tears behind and Dean feels rich with it. He squirts it into an old washcloth, not the newest but it’s still soft with the memory of name-brand fabric softener some old owner had splurged on. It’ll be brittle and stiff by the time they move on to the next place.

 

“Get you all nice and clean, Sammy.”

 

The curve of Sam’s little bubble-bath butt jiggles when he laughs. Dean lets his washcloth cling to it, nothing but sudsy fabric separating him from Sam’s soft skin. He skates around the backs of Sam’s thighs, scrubbing up and down while Sam hums the Ghostbusters theme to himself. Dean’s hips press against the edge of the tub, cutting a white line below his bellybutton.

 

Dean gets hard sometimes. His Dad had said it was normal and then resolutely never discussed it again. Dean keeps it to himself mostly, but sometimes he’s blindingly aware of that itch between his legs, a niggling bug bite he doesn’t really want to swat away. He inches himself closer to the tub and bites his lip.

 

Sam barely needs any urging to spread his legs wider. He answers Dean’s soft press by scooting his knees to the sides of the tub until Dean can see it.

 

Dean throbs warm against the cool enamel as he drags his No-Tears washcloth over the pinky-round quiver of Sam’s butthole. He always cleans Sam here, just like he does every other inch of him. Dean presses softly with his finger, tracing the little circle until Sam ends his sing-song with a sharp inhale.

 

There’s this sense in Dean’s stomach that tells him when to stop things, when he won’t be able to get Sam to eat any more vegetables no matter how much he needs to or when he needs to quit asking Dad questions about the old house in Lawrence. He knows he shouldn’t let his Dad see when he touches himself down there and he knows that there’s different kinds of kisses he can give Sam when they’re alone.

 

Sam opens his mouth and makes the same sound he made when Dean showed him how to rub himself down there.

 

“Does it feel good?”

 

Dean doesn’t need to whisper but he wants to, just to feel how it seeps into him like bathwater steam and that soft little breath Sam lets out. Dean’s stomach feels tight like he shouldn’t but it feels even better when he drops the washcloth into the water with a soft splash and drags his bare finger over Sam’s hole.

 

“Yeah?”

 

Sam whispers too, all hopeful like he got Dean’s question right.

 

Dean tries to shake his hand off as best he can before he slips it down the drawstring front of his pants, but it still gets a little damp when he closes it over his dick. Sometimes it just feels ok to touch himself, like a pleasant stretch or a good snack, but sometimes it makes him shiver and feel all the spit in his mouth.

 

Sam’s so pink there, pink like the flush of his face when he looks up at Dean. A steam-damp curl falls into his face but his eyes stay wide open. Dean flicks back and forth between two sets of pinked cheeks as he rubs and tugs until it’s too much, like holding a sneeze in until it explodes out.

 

“Lemme, um, lemme wash your hair, ok?”

 

Dean swallows and busies himself with Sam’s silk soft curls.

 

“De?”

 

Sam blinks up at him when the last of the water is carefully wiped off his face.

 

“Can we touch tongues later?”

 

Dean wraps him up in a paisley-print towel as they share one of those secret smiles that Dad doesn’t get to see.

 

~

 

Sam didn’t always sleep on his stomach.

 

He used to sleep curled up puppy-warm against Dean’s side, with his mouth huffing against Dean’s armpit and his skinny legs tangling up around Dean’s waist. Dean had ironed that out of him before he’d hit fourth grade.

 

Sometimes Dean just looked at it, careful-soft so Sam would keep sleeping. Sam always let his pants down with barely a murmur, blinking sleepy and snuggling back.

 

Dean kissed it, too, those first few times before Sam really knew what was happening. Striped in dawn-light through some borrowed curtains Sam’s skin was always sweetest, the trek down the valley dip of Sam’s butt even better when Dad was snoring a spitball throw away and Dean had to keep his head under the covers, every sense smothered in Sam’s sweetness as he mouthed his way to Sam’s other set of kiss-pursed lips.

 

Sometimes Sam humped his little hips against the bed and whined like a puppy. Dean had clapped his hand over Sam’s mouth the first time and Dean’s cock had jerked so hard he’d ended up making the most noise. He’d earned a scolding for pinching his brother and a promise to himself to do it again the second Dad left.

 

One night soon Sam’d wake up and ask him for it.

 

~

 

“I have the cutest little brother in the world.”

 

Their flashlights under the sheets map a galaxy of bleach-faded constellations on the ceiling.

 

“He has the cutest…”

 

Dean pauses, narrowing his eyes like he’s thinking really hard. Choosing a cutest part of Sam is damn near impossible, but watching him squirm in anticipation is what really makes Dean’s stomach tickle all funny inside him.

 

“Toes!”

 

Sam’s laugh peals against the water-stained walls of their two-room weekly in Oswego. It’s got ants and a nasty draft and plaster cracks Dean can worm three of his fingers into, but Dad’s been gone for two days and this might be Dean’s favorite place on earth.

 

Sam giggles and squirms but he lets Dean capture the little curve of his foot easily. Dean kisses along each tiny, curling toe, _one two three four five_ and then back again over the neat half-moons of his big-brother-clipped toenails. Dean would never say it but Sam would look so cute with raspberry polish on them like the girls at the mall have.

 

“I have the cutest little brother in the world,” Dean sighs against the up-tick arch of Sam’s foot, strangely graceful just like the rest of him.

 

“He has the cutest…”

 

Dean presses one last greedy kiss to the sole of Sam’s foot before he releases it. Sam’s tense, gleefully so, his smile stretched shadow-wide by the errant beam of Dean’s flashlight. Dean crawls up between Sam’s legs, raking his eyes over every inch of little-brother eagerness. Sam spreads out so easily for him, monkey limbs making way when Dean plants his hands by Sam’s shoulders and lets his hips slide against Sam’s belly. Dean’s already half-hard.

 

“Ears!”

 

Sam laughs this time too but it’s softer, lost in the moan he lets out when Dean kisses open-mouthed along the shell of his ear. Sam’s always been sensitive there. Dean has to curl his back but he can just catch the sheet-warm wriggle of Sam’s body against his dick.

 

“Feels good,” Sam hums. The flashlight rolls around, bouncing light and shadow all mixed up with Sam’s pleased giggles and the soft give of his little boy belly.

 

“I have the cutest little brother in the world.”

 

Dean sucks the soft lobe of Sam’s ear between his teeth, rolling it with his tongue until he sucks out that throat-sigh Sam makes that goes right to his dick. Dean’s seen porn, filched movies from the back of small town video rental places, snowed-out scrambled shit that he can eek out of some rental tv if he hovers the dial just right. The girls always sound dumb, _yeah yeah yeah_ over and over like a pack of hungry cats. None of them sound like Sam.

 

Sam, whose fingers still taste like pencil eraser when Dean sucks them greedy-quick in the school hallway, Sam who can pout like the covergirl of Dad’s battered copy of _Finally!!! 18_ magazine, not some jam-lipped eight year old who’s already making Dean’s dick strain against his old sweatpants, Sam with his sharp little boydick poking back against Dean. Dean can get off just humping against him like this, so quiet all he can hear is the soft rush of Sam’s breath and the barest spring-whisper of their bed. They don’t have to be quiet tonight.

 

“He’s got the cutest…”

 

Dean’s hand spans over the flat expanse of Sam’s belly, middle finger just below his belly button and his pinky and thumb stretching toward the gentle rise of Sam’s hips.

 

“Belly,” dies on Dean’s lips before he even catches a breath, lost somewhere in the spike of Sam’s hips when he tucks himself up and tugs his pj pants down around his thighs. The exclamation point of Sam’s dick bobs a little as Dean stares at him, and Sam just stares right back with that steely glint in his eyes that flashes when he says “No” straight to Dad’s face. He licks his lips and slithers over onto his belly, the cupcake top of his butt rising up over the faded star wrapper of his waistline. Dean hovers over him, arms and legs boxing in Sam’s hip-curved offering.

 

“Cutest little asshole.”

 

It’s not a game anymore but Dean still whispers it against Sam’s back.

 

Sam is skin-sweet and copper warm, the little mounds of his ass barely palm-big in Dean’s hands. Dean spreads him one at a time, savoring the familiar chub of his cock as he teases out glimpses of Sam’s pinkest parts, back and forth.

 

Dean could swear it’s getting darker, that little mountain ridge of skin that flexes and tugs tight against the gentle curtain-press of Dean’s thumbs. Dean knows each furl and fold as well as he knows his own teeth against his tongue.

 

He’s clean. Dean had scrubbed him soapy there just because he could, because Dad’s not there to shoo him out of the bathroom. Dean licks the bath-trace away until it’s just Sam and the old sweet song of Dean’s tongue.

 

Sam tastes different deep inside. That boy skin salt lick gives way to some copper-sweet core that makes Dean’s hair stand on end. He gets the tip of his tongue wriggled in, dipping penny wet as Sam makes that glorious little huff, the one that Dean hears like a ghost when they’re forced into separate rooms or have to sleep in the car and keep all their secrets tucked inside. Dean strains his tongue, in and out deeper and deeper just to milk out every little dick-jerking noise he can tickle out of Sam’s asshole.

 

Maybe he’ll slip a finger in it soon.

 

Sam doesn’t really jerk off yet, just rubs his dick palm-flat and bites his little lip. It drives Dean insane. Sam twitches back and forth between his pack of cards hand and Dean palming him open, sighing sweet and turning his cheek to beam back with every watt of baby brother sunshine until Dean comes without touching his dick.

 

Dean pillows his face on Sam’s back and swims until Sam rolls over and destroys him with one of those grade-school fingers dimpling his lower lip. Sam doesn’t call him _De_ any more except for when he does, usually before he puppy-eyes up at Dean and says it.

 

“Can we touch tongues?”

 

~

 

Sam’s the ace in school but Dean knows how to study too.

 

All the jewel box secrets that Sam’s little body is hiding just for him, the ballerina pink of his asshole, the slipper soft pout of his lower lip when Dean’s cock weeps honeydrops of precome onto it, the wind up song of his laugh when Dean blows softly against the baby skin of his thighs, the en pointe of his toes when his little dick jerks out sweet nothings into Dean’s mouth, the pirouette of his boysoft cock bobbing up and down in counterpoint to Dean’s ill-choreographed thrusts.

 

Dean learns it all like a hymn, hums it like a pink-cheeked rosary that sustains him through the grim march of life on the road and the dreary fluorescence of motels that charge by the hour.

 

~

 

“Just let me see it, Sammy.”

 

Nose buried in a book and the hem of his stained Hulk Hogan shirt riding up an inch on his back, Sam still makes his blood run quick when Dad starts snoring.

 

“Got homework, Dean.”

 

Sam’s on his fourth fifth-grade of the year but he reads like he’s in ninth. He scoots over to make room when Dean settles on “Sam’s” twin bed, like they’d been spending any nights sleeping apart once Dad said his gruff goodnights.

 

“You’re just reading.”

 

Sam doesn’t look back when Dean nuzzles along the hunched-down line of his neck but he still lets a little sigh slip past his lips. Dean licks up the seashell curve of Sam’s ear and chases it with his breath. It always makes Sam shiver and maybe he’s cheating a little but Sam softens against him, warm and right.

 

“I, uh, never read this book before.”

 

“You can keep reading.”

 

The bed creaks a little as Dean slides down, not that anything short of a major explosion in the living room would wake Dad up at this point. Dean had poured his drinks.

 

Sam lets himself get eased onto his belly with only a soft mewl of complaint, a kitten-sound that Dean would lick out of his mouth if he were higher up. He settles for dipping his tongue into the valley of Sam’s spine as he slides a hand over the fly of Sam’s worn brown cords.

 

“ _Dean_ ,” Sam stage-whispers, half _we shouldn’t do this_ and half _hurry up_. His book is spread open over his face in an old-time fan, bashful like he doesn’t know the uptick of his back is snaking its way around Dean’s dick. Sam’s a schoolyard flirt even when he’s not trying.

 

“Do your homework, Sammy.”

 

He tugs Sam’s pants down to the knees and there it is, Dean’s prize, his light, his love, his obsession. Dean drags his tongue greedy-flat from base to tip, dog-licking like the drooling mutt Sam always turns him into. He licks and sucks until his chin is wet, savoring the way Sam softens under him like a dime-store caramel. Butterscotch, that’s Sam, melting into Dean’s mouth until Dean can sink his whole tongue inside and Sam’s not reading any more.

 

Sam hikes one hip up and slips his hand between his legs, skinny fingers on his skinny little dick and the peach pit of his tailbone kissing the bridge of Dean’s nose. Dean rubs against him nose to chin, hungry, always hungry for Sam down here. He ignores the leaking insistence of his cock and sucks until he can feel the catch of Sam’s muscles, that little ring that stretches easier and easier with each dip of his tongue. Dean’s jaw aches by the time he stops and presses his cheek to Sam’s puffy little asshole like a lover, a boy obsessed, a devotee.

 

Worship, that’s really it. Dean could prostrate himself to this spit-wet circle of holy ground until his knees bleed.

 

He bows back down and clasps his hands onto the altar of his brother’s thighs. Sam’s doe-trembling and tugging at his dick like something’s gonna come out if he works hard enough. One day it will and Dean will martyr himself if he’s not there to catch it in his mouth.

 

Dean fumbles a hand onto his dick, an afterthought when Sam’s making those little pillow moans and humping back against Dean’s overstrained mouth because Sam needs it, too. Dean could come just rubbing himself off against the edge of the bed, he’s done it enough times before, but last time Sam had put his mouth on it Dean had flooded onto his tongue and Sam had swallowed every drop of it. Dean’s dreams ever since have just been melted streaks of white creaming out every brother pink inch of Sam he can pry open.

 

Dean’s half-dollar load in his hand seems huge to him now, a fact he’ll laugh at later in his life when Sam’s hanging red-faced and throat-up over a bed in the Bunker and he’s cough-snorting enough jizz that Dean doesn’t even bother getting the stray drops off the floor.

 

For now the quivering pool in his palm looks like an ocean when Sam’s slit-licking little kitten tongue dips into it. He’s dainty about it, eyes flirting up with Dean’s until Dean wraps him up fireman-strong in his arms and feeds him the rest with his own Sam-sweet mouth.

 

They touch tongues but Sam doesn’t have to ask this time.

 

~

 

Sam’s the sixth-grader of the year in Springfield #3. Massachusetts wasn’t so bad, Dean had beat someone up in Illinois, and Michigan was fucking freezing but at least they got to share a bed.

 

Dean’ll never forget that bed. Sam hits a growth spurt that Dean can almost hear and there’s barely room for the two of them, but Sam comes in his mouth for the first time and all of Dean’s hopes that Sam can get out and make it straight dissolve like the white cloud in his mouth.

 

“Dean, what’s, oh God.”

 

That first muffled spurt of spider-silk from Sam’s slit tastes like heaven. Dean’s there for it, with three fingers in Sam’s ass and a chokehold on Sam’s fattening little cockhead.

 

It’s barely enough to swallow twice but Dean still licks his fingers clean.

~

 

“You can put it in me,” Sam whispers one night, his face tucked pink and sweaty against some no-tell South Carolina pillow, Dean’s tongue halfway to paradise in the decade-ripe plush of his ass.

 

“Like I’m your girlfriend.”

 

Sam sucks the babyfat swell of his lip between those still-new teeth and Dean is ruined.

 

~

 

“Just watch.”

 

Dean’s couldn’t move out of his chair if Dad held a gun to his head.

 

“Missed you.”

 

Sam had gotten off a bus in Milwaukee and Dean’s heart had burst. He’d been carrying ten tons of fury on his fifteen-year-old shoulders ever since Dad had left Sam alone in that apartment.

 

_“Sam’s old enough, gotta learn to be a man.”_

 

Sam will never be a man, not when he’s as old as Dad or when they’re both buried in some forgotten heroes’ grave. Sam will always be Dean’s pink little secret.

 

“Missed you so much, Dean.”

 

It had hurt not to kiss him. It had hurt to drive back to the house with Sam too far away in the backseat, it had hurt not to carry him inside in Dean’s arms. That last minute of waiting for the engine to ignite and Dad to race away from their plain pizza and paper plates reunion had eaten at him like a beast inside, clawing towards Sam until Dean would have let Dad watch. Even Sam’s mouth finally finally _finally_ on him had barely tamped down the panic-ache in his chest.

 

They’d made out on the kitchen table and Dean had ruined his last pair of clean underwear. Dean hadn’t let himself bust a nut since they’d left Sam, some small penance he can lay at Sam’s bare little feet, on his smooth lips and the darkening-pink buds on his flat chest. Dean could blow his load again right now, but he’s not wasting a drop of it until Sam gets his mouth on it and Sam had told him to sit down. _Just watch._

 

Dean’s already so hard it hurts and it’s wonderful.

 

He can’t inch his dragged-in kitchen chair any closer to the edge of the bed but he still scuffs it that bare bit.  He keeps his hands on the edge of the armrests, not because Sam told him to but it feels right.

 

“Thought about you every night.”

 

Sam’s still peachfuzz and cream all over. Dean could suck the dew from his bones he’s growing so fast. His mouth waters and his dick feels wet at the tip, a new trick he’d picked up a few months ago when he was watching Sam play with himself in the shower.

 

Sam had dragged him into the single bedroom and lost his clothes somewhere in the process. Dean’s already too drunk on him to remember. He’s still wearing his pants, if the ache of his cock is anything to go by. No matter how many times Dean tries to recall it, tries to summon the taste of Sam in his lonely mouth and coax those soft sighs out of some payphone, he can never capture this feeling, the fevered haze of watching Sam spread his stripper-pole legs to peepshow all that pink.

 

“ _Sammy_.”

 

He hears Sam’s fingers in his candy suck mouth before he can tear his eyes away from the flutter of Sam’s asshole. With his weight braced on his baby bird chest and his spindle fingers tugging spit shiny at his asshole, Sam looks too delicate to take the three fingers he sinks into himself. God it hurts, every inch of his body glued in place like he’ll break the spell if he lunges for Sam the way he wants to.

 

“Been, unh, been practicing, while you were gone.”

 

Sam doesn’t have three pubes to braid together but his pinky slips in past the knuckle with only a sigh and a strangled moan from Dean. Dean’s heart skips, furious for his weeks away, his murderous hard-on throbbing like he could fuck Sam into oblivion and leave the rest of the world to burn.

 

Sam’s hole stretch-quivers when he draws his fingers back, trembling just like Dean’s lips as he watches Sam re-wet his hand in his mouth. Dean’s gonna suck those fingers pruny if it kills him.

 

“Jesus fuck, Sammy.”

 

 _One two three four_ , they all sink back in, like that’s not enough to set Dean on fire, but it’s the demure tuck of Sam’s thumb against his palm that tears him in half like he’s the one getting split open on the breadth of Sam’s knuckles.

 

Dean stumbles onto the bed, knee-crouched, stalking the two feet between them. He could swallow the spit in his mouth like a generous shot, wet for his brother with the slavering beast inside him that wants to devour Sam whole, suck him from the inside out.

 

“Oh God, do it, Sammy,” Dean begs, tongue out to pant for it when Sam turns the delicate key of his wrist and gets his whole fucking hand inside himself. To the wrist and trembling plucked-petal all over, Sam works wet at himself and says Dean’s name so softly Dean feels the demand in it more than hears it.

 

He’s dragged his tongue over the side of his wrist in the shower, like anything could recreate this desperate sense-memory of his mouth following the gravity of Sam’s swollen satellite asshole. He licks along the rim, catching as much of Sam’s wrist as his pink parts when he leaves it in one place and lets Sam fuck himself against it.

 

“God, just, just lemme Sammy, please.”

 

God he’s fucking stretched, satin-smooth where his perfect penmanship wrist is splitting him wider than a dick. Dean’s chest constricts at the black-hole gape Sam leaves behind when he pulls it out and it’s the first time Dean doesn’t know if he wants to fuck it or jerk off in it more.

 

“It’s not as good as you.”

 

Jerking off can wait.

 

Once Sam’s on his back with his arms girlfriend-tight around Dean’s neck, Dean slips in where Sam’s already loose and easy, sweeter than any pussy and a million times better. He kisses down the archer’s curve of Sam’s arm before he plucks Sam’s red right hand from his neck and sucks those sin-sweet fingers into his mouth.

 

Sam can fit his whole fist in his ass but Dean can fit it in his mouth and he’s not sure which is better.

 

~

 

Sam had been waiting with a warm dinner like some apron-string housewife. Dad’s been gone for three days and this must be what heaven is like, a full belly and the full length of his cock sinking into Sam’s fucked-out hole for the third time that night.

 

Sam’s raw around the edges, lipstick red and fat-lip puffy. They’d stopped using lube after the first load Dean had emptied into him.

 

“Look so fuckin’ good for me, Sammy.”

 

Dean eases back just to see the sluttish pull of Sam’s hole, that little turned out hint of what’s inside.

 

“Need me to fill you up again, little brother?”

 

What’s inside is a slick mess of Dean’s come, frothing white like Sam’s rabid for taking dick. It oozes out in little rivers that make Dean grunt and smear the head of his cock through them, push it all back inside Sam where it belongs.

 

They’re different kinds of greedy, the two of them. Dean’ll blow load after load into Sam’s willing wet body until he’s drained and shaking and light-headed, but not Sammy. He likes to store it up, clutch those heartbreak fingers around his nuts and squeeze until he chokes it back. He’s barely sixteen but Sam’s got a will of steel under those bangs and gangle-limbs. It’s gotta hurt but so does Dean’s thumb slipping in alongside his cock and Sam likes that the best.

 

“Load that little pussy up good.”

 

Sam likes the girlfriend stuff. Like any girl, any other warm body on earth could do the things that Sam does to him. Sam and his dripping-sweet little rosebud are so tangled inside him Dean would bleed to death if anyone tried to pluck the thorns out. He’d never let them.

 

“Getting loose on me, sweetheart.”

 

Sam’s voice breaks all the time lately but the fracture of Sam’s moan when Dean sinks both his thumbs into the fuck-red heat of his asshole is a timeless thing. The lines of Dean’s knuckles scrape back and forth against his dick as he fucks Sam brother-rough.

 

“Want to feel you fuckin’ come, Sammy.”

 

Dean keeps one thumb hooked in his own private paradise as he reaches down to cup the familiar heft of Sam’s boy-fat cock. It’s blood hot, throb throb and drip when Dean bats Sam’s edge-clutch fingers away and strokes him root to tip. He’d taught Sam how to touch his dick and he’ll keep reminding him until something rips them apart.

 

“Let me feel it, baby.”

 

Sam can hold it back but when he finally lets go it’s wild and raw and Sam screams like a man on the rack. Dean fucks him harder than he should, hungry for each ripple of Sam’s muscles, every dirty seismic shudder Dean can wring out of him.

 

Sam tightens up when he comes, strangling whatever’s left out of Dean’s fucksore balls. They’re sweat-stuck and grunting through it, bodies slapping and it’s so goddamn loud Dad could hear it from the ground floor of their biweekly rental if he pulled up right now.

 

Dad could just fucking listen.

 

Dean fucks him through it, catching each drop of come that spurts trackstar fast out of his dick. If Sam’s gonna be stingy with it Dean’s not sharing it with the sheets.

 

Sam’s breath is marathon-wrecked, his ever-expanding back heaving up and down. He’s got sweet little hairs down there now, soft curls like his baby head and Dean’s kissed each one. He’s still soft serve strawberry smooth on the inside, Christ, insides Dean can see dripping and folding pussy pink where Sam’s still clutching at empty air. Sam’s wrecked, truck stop fuck boy turned out and sloppy wet. He’ll clutch back up soon but Dean has to push, press his thumb sharp into the slack mouth of Sam’s hole and tease it out.

 

“Come on, Sammy.”

 

Dean waits for Sam to look before he slurps up his shot of baby brother and lets it pool in his mouth. Sam’s shoulders shake but he’s still strong enough to hold himself up and look back at Dean’s candy cream mouth before Dean fist grips his hips and flips him over. Sam gets bigger every goddamn day but Dean can still toss him around.

 

Sam’s been giving his ass up for Dean longer than he hasn’t and it’s instinct that gets those mile long legs up around his ears with barely any urging. Dean thumbs him open, pressing greedy where Sam’s still slipping out from the memory of Dean’s cock. Sam’s simple _fuck_ when Dean purses his lips and spits straight down sinks into Dean like top shelf Johnny, gut warm and golden sweet like the honey spit swirl of Sam’s come oozing down into his pussy fucked boy parts.

 

Dean chases the last drop off his lips, sucking and fucking his tongue into where Sam’s so soft now. Sam always goes back boy-shaped but Dean would keep him like this all the time if he could.

 

“I know you got more for me, Sammy.”

 

Dean turns his cheek on the time-worn resting place of Sam’s thigh and sinks two fingers into either side of him. He looks up across the bent angle of Sam’s stomach and licks his lips, smiling at Sam’s flushed face, wide eyes over his Jolly Rancher mouth, prom-date pink all over and Dean would run away with him right now if he asked.

 

“Make that little pussy squirt for me.”

 

Sam’s breath hitches before he grunts heavy and pushes a fat rope of body warm come into Dean’s waiting mouth. His hole quivers, fish-mouthing until suddenly Sam blooms pink and white for Dean to feast on.

 

Like everything Dean’s ever eaten, he shares it with Sam until they’re both full.

 

~

 

Sam leaves for Stanford and Dean starves.

 

~

 

Somewhere between Dad’s death and Dean’s they find their way back, split-lipped from some empty fight that just leaves them hard for each other.

 

Over the hood with a sea of stars to see, Dean fucks him bare and hard. Dean’s never fucked anyone else raw and he wants whatever Sam has anyway. Sam’s not the one going away again.

 

Sam opens up high-school easy and Dean comes faster than he has since senior year, buried deep, deep, claiming hard until Sam has to strain to push it back into his mouth. Sam tastes copper-fucked and dirty and like both of them again, and it’s the last thing Dean’ll think about before the world lets loose the hounds of hell and the first thing he’ll remember when he gasps for life in a brother-buried pine box.

 

Sam kisses him after and those thorns are still deeper in him than Heaven or Hell could ever claw out.

 

“I can still get my hand in it,” Sam whispers, bath time soft and secret-sweet into his mouth.

 

Dean parts his lips into a pink prayer and begs for forgiveness.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr post here!](http://saltandbyrnefic.tumblr.com/post/137526213689/saltandbyrne-there-is-a-fountain-for)


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